Her Hero
by A Voice in the Desert
Summary: He was quite literally thrown into her life. She hated him (or so she thought). Leo Valdez through the eyes of Calypso. Caleo.


**Her Hero**

 _By: A Voice in the Desert_

Slightly stringy. Partially burned. And wholly infuriating.

When _he_ first crashed through her dining room table, she knew he was different from the others. He wasn't a hero – he was a joke. Another barb from the gods to prod and irritate their eternal captive. Another plot device to improve ratings on Hephaestus TV. He wasn't even worthy of her heart – the part of her that she was _cursed (obligated)_ to give away every time a hero washed up on her shore.

She immediately decided that she hated him. He couldn't stop moving. His hands twitched when he talked, constantly fidgeting with wires and gears that sprouted endlessly from that gods-accursed tool belt. He was the antithesis of peace, of the calm that she had worked so hard to cultivate on Ogygia.

At first she just ignored him, hoping that if he was relegated to some far off corner of her island that she could just pretend he didn't exist. Then maybe the gods would come and collect their plaything so she could go back to her solitude. She figured she was entitled to at least two millennia's worth of quiet after dealing with him for two days.

When it became obvious that the gods weren't inclined to remove the nuisance, she decided that (logically) it was only fair that he share in her displeasure. He always seemed to appear at inopportune times, in _her_ places – the cave or the garden. Her plants were in neat, perfect rows before he came traipsing through. Everything was in order. It had its place. She would only admit (much, much later) that she was slightly embarrassed for throwing pots and pans at him. At the time, she was mostly sorry that she missed.

Unfortunately, the demigod (he was no hero) had a stubborn streak to match her own and an unconscious nobility that she found hard to resist. When the little imp started tinkering, fixing the old and broken things on her island, it only angered her further. Couldn't he see that she didn't want him here? Didn't her insults, her tirades, her _tears_ mean anything to him?

 _Bang. Bang. Clang. Boom._ The idiot was busy at his makeshift forge once again. Not only that, but the wind spirits had brought back his food uneaten for the last two days. Didn't he at least have the decency to take care of himself? To appreciate all that she was doing for him? It was _her_ island after all.

So she stormed down to the beach, intent on giving him a piece of her mind. Instead she found herself listening to, hearing her companion, truly seeing him for the first time. His clothes were in tatters (not that his chest was anything to see) but his eyes, while tired, held a manic determination. He was going to help his friends, whether she was onboard or not.

She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, but not long after he'd promised to "hammer more quietly" the cacophony of the forge began to blend with the soft calls of the island birds and the gentle lapping of the waves. It was far from melodic, but it was constant, steady – much like the boy.

Capable. That was how she thought of him now. Yes, he was still frustratingly irritating and downright rude, but most of the other demigods that had come to Ogygia had simply sat around and waited for rescue. The scrawny son of Hephaestus did no such thing. After discovering a cache of celestial bronze, he set to work planning his escape. He'd hum quiet assents when she reminded him (rather unkindly) that he was stuck here for all eternity, and then go back to work, his nimble fingers flying across circuit boards, making minute alterations to his precious sphere. After a while (and against her better judgment), she had to admit that he'd grown on her. It felt good have a hero wash up on her shore that she didn't feel compelled to love. It felt _normal_. It felt like _reality_.

Soon she felt the need to pitch in. She didn't like feeling useless and all his work spurred her to do more. She might not have been particularly handy with a hammer and she was rather rusty with a ratchet, but she could follow instructions. The food and the fireproof clothes, well those were just her way of returning the favor. They didn't mean anything more. They couldn't. She wouldn't let them. Her (admittedly childish) outburst over the Roman praetor only confirmed her feelings. He could tinker with his machines all he wanted, but she wouldn't let him tinker with her heart.

Ironically it was Gaea, the thrice-cursed Earth Mother, who forced her to see her companion for who he really was. Her grandmother was nothing if not manipulative, petty, and vengeful, but there was no reason for her to care about a single demigod unless he posed a true threat to her plans. After Gaea's visit, she knew she could no longer afford to allow her petty (selfish) vendetta to keep her companion from returning to his friends.

In a cruel twist of fate, the Earth Mother's words not only spurred her to action, but also forced her to truly get to know the young man (she could no longer rightly think of him as merely a boy after everything that Gaea had said). He was driven and brash and carried an inner strength much like the other heroes, but he hid behind insecurities, hurts and fears. He struck a delicate balance between assured self-confidence and a tentativeness born of past rejection.

When he spoke of starting an auto repair shop and garage with her, she felt most of her inner walls come crashing down. He wasn't supposed to be able to do this. He was a walking contradiction: with one hand he built her trust, with the other he rewired her heart. It had been a long time since a hero affected her like this. It made her want to hope again.

And when he said that he would come back for her because it was _fair._ Not because it was right, not because he loved her, not because she deserved it, but because it was _fair?_ That was the moment she knew. She didn't even need to look to the shore to know the raft was there. She squeezed her eyes shut and bid the tears to stay.

She didn't hear him at the time, but she came to find that he swore on the Styx. The foolish demigod. Didn't he know that he would never find his way back? Did he know how many promises she'd heard? How long she'd waited? He was used to working with machines – they could be fixed, modified, upgraded – but her heart, her heart could never again be whole. Why couldn't he understand? Why couldn't he make it easy?

He had his whole life ahead of him – there would be other girls (perhaps the Roman). Girls who were far easier to love. Girls that he would see again – who he could send postcards that didn't get marked _Return to Sender_.Didn't he understand that _she wasn't worth it?_

And yet, with an impish smile, an upturned corner of his lip that was decidedly unlike the more _traditional_ heroes – Odysseus, Drake, Percy – he resonated a strength far greater than those that had come before. He truly believed that she could be rescued, rebuilt, just as he had done with the flying trireme or his beloved Festus.

So, gods be damned, she kissed him, her lips on his, her hands buried in his mess of curls. The heart that she had tried to hide, to bury, to lock away behind celestial bronze bars – well, leave it to Hephaestus' son to find the key. As he disappeared over the edge, beyond the eternal horizons of Ogygia on a raft that she helped outfit with her own hands, she felt her heart break. Hello. Goodbye. The circle complete once again.

She ran back to her cave and hid herself in her bed. Nothing would change. It never did. The road to Ogygia had long been paved with good intentions. But no one found it twice.

So what was it about him that prompted her to tell the air spirits to pack her bags a few days later, to be ready to leave at a moment's notice? It was foolishness. A fool's hope born of love. He was the unlikely demigod that made her want to believe again.

And so, when a flaming meteor exploded into Ogygia's atmosphere some time later, it wasn't greeted with indignant outrage, but with uncontainable hope and a heartfelt smile.

"You're late." She teased as he pulled himself unceremoniously to his feet.

Tanned skin. Dark, unruly curls. Wiry frame. Teasing smile.

 _Her hero._

He said something (probably witty). She kissed him. Once. Twice. Then again for good measure – an uncontrollable giggle escaping her lips.

He smelled smoky. He was covered in grease and oil. His clothes (she noted, with some chagrin) were burned, hanging tattered from his scrawny (no, perfect) frame. She grabbed him and held tight. He'd overcome it all, for her.

The Oath-Keeper. Hephaestus' son.

Leo Valdez.

Slightly stringy. Partially burned. But wholly _hers._

And that made all the difference.

* * *

 **It's been a while since I've had the opportunity to really sit down and write something so I'm slowly working myself back into writing shape. This ended up being a bit more lyrical than I originally intended, but ultimately I'm decently pleased with how it turned out. There's something about the dynamic between Leo and Calypso that I really enjoy exploring.**

 **Anyways, hope you enjoyed this as well. Please review!**

 **~VotD**


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